


Associates with Benefits

by Hoodoo



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Haunted Houses, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28590585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: Beetlejuice knew Otho from way back, even before the Deetz' house.
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Otho
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Associates with Benefits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CopperContessa_13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperContessa_13/gifts).



> A secret Santa gift from me to you!

_“You?_ What’re _you_ doing here?!” 

Out of anyone, anywhere in the Nether- or upper world, Beetlejuice never thought he’d lay eyes on _him_ again. 

“I’d ask the same of you, but I’m fairly sure I know the answer.”

From his seat on the trunk by the window, the specter scoffed and shook his head, although he didn’t take his eyes off the other man. 

_“Jesus._ You still scamming people? Life coach or crystal whisperer or whatever? Or are you back to trying to get your sex cult up and running again?”

Otho--he never took the time to legally change his name, but like he told his clients, “if you believed in something enough, it can become your reality”--matched the scoff and straightened to an imposing height. He always was taller.

“The sex cult only worked with your help,” he admitted begrudgingly, “and you know it, Beetlejuice.”

A quick flash of pink rippled through the specter’s hair and he shivered. He couldn’t disguise either semi-pleased reaction to his name spoken aloud. More importantly, did he want to?

“So what’s the con this time, big guy?”

Otho rolled his eyes and opened his jacket enough to find a silver cigarette case tucked into the inside pocket. He took his time extracting a cigarette, paused, then offered one to the house’s uninvited guest he’d found in the attic. Beetlejuice took it, lit it with a flame that originated on his fingertip, and gestured Otho closer. 

The man agreed without a word, but instead of using flame to light his smoke, Beetlejuice leaned in close enough for the tips to meet.

Amber eyes held more the humanly brown, and Otho sucked slightly on the cigarette between his lips to light it. Only once it caught did Beetlejuice move back. 

“I was hired to cleanse this house of some distinctive poltergeist activity,” he finally answered.

Beetlejuice grinned. True to form, Otho never used the word ‘con.’ The man may be a shyster, but he was full of himself. Beetlejuice could respect that, being a confident hustler himself. 

“That wasn’t me.”

Otho lifted an eyebrow. “Oh no?” 

“Shit no. Moving chairs around? Knocking on walls? That’s haunting 101. Baby ghost antics, like that pansy white bread couple, what’s their name--”

“You know their names. The Maitlands.”

When he wasn’t overwhelmed by a demon raging beyond reason, Otho never hesitated to call him out.

“Right. The Maitlands. How’re they doing? And the rest of the Scooby gang?” He took in a lungful of smoke then dropped his gaze as if he was suddenly very interested in the cigarette, examining it as if trying to read the brand on the paper in the pale moonlight filtering through the attic window. 

“I wouldn’t know. _Someone_ strapped me to a Wheel of Death and kicked me into some weird limbo where I had to claw my way back to the upper world. I ended up in _Iowa,_ for christ’s sake!”

Beetlejuice chuckled, but choked it back when he saw the angry expression on the other’s face. “Hey man, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know you were going to end up in the midwest! I was _angry,_ and you know that sometimes things get a little out of control when I’m angry.”

Otho gave him a dead-eyed stare in response. Taking a second to center himself, he decided to follow the advice from that one movie and let it go. He wished he could’ve laid claim to that phrase without sounding like he was parrotting a kid’s movie; it was a good one: simple and seemingly easy to follow. 

More calmly, he returned to an earlier part of the conversation. “So I have no clue how any of them are getting on. _You_ spent more time with them, why don’t you tell me?”

Automatically Beetlejuice’s free hand went to the center of his chest. It was a habit that he found hard to break, running his fingers over the knobby scar he’d gotten as a reminder of the whole bungled situation. It still physically pained him, and could be felt even through a layer of clothing. It still _emotionally_ pained him, that betrayal that he didn’t want to admit he deserved. 

“I don’t know either,” he whispered, and yanked his hand away from his chest. 

The two of them stood in silence for a moment. Smoke drifted upwards in curlicues, looking bright white in the moonlight. 

Otho hadn’t missed the involuntary movements and cleared his throat quietly. “I heard she hurt you.”

“Everybody hurts me.” He meant it say it snappy and full of wrath, but it came out weak.

The man’s reply was just as soft, and just was wounded. “I never did.” 

Beetlejuice looked up again. Otho held his lit cigarette at his side and was watching him with an unreadable expression.

He tried to dredge up some righteous indignation. “You were going to put me in a soul box!”

“The soul box _you_ gave me?” Otho replied drily. “The one that was particle board painted with some fancy iridescent paint you brought over from the Netherworld to look impressive? That soul box?”

He had no reply to that.

“Damn it. Beej--we almost had them! If we’d just stuck to the plan, it would have been free and clear, but--”

“But it was _my_ fault, is that what you were going to say?! That once again I screwed the pooch, just like so many other times in my fucking existence?!”

“--but the girl threw a wretch in the works,” Otho continued firmly. 

Beetlejuice both hated and loved that Otho was rarely rattled by his outbursts. 

“She offered something you couldn’t pass up. I get it.”

He wanted to stay angry at the man. At least he could feel anger; it was one of the strongest emotions, but it always burnt itself out and left him exhausted and remorseful. Suddenly he just couldn’t hold onto the rage. He dropped his head.

The floorboards creaked and the man’s cologne washed over him. Blenheim Bouquet. The light spicy floral scent always seemed too gossamery for a man, but wasn’t the faint aroma of roses that followed him occasionally out of place as well? The cologne was so synonymous with Otho the specter couldn’t imagine him without it. 

With his face still turned down, he watched a hand carefully curl into his striped lapel.

“I don’t blame you, Beej,” Otho said quietly.

He didn’t need to. He blamed himself.

After a beat with no reply, Otho continued, even more quietly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Beetlejuice admitted in such a whisper his voice would have been lost if they weren’t in a silent attic.

In a fluid movement Otho dropped his cigarette to the wooden floor and brought that hand to the specter’s jaw., He stepped forward to crush the smoldering smoke out and bring himself even closer, and as he lifted Beetlejuice’s face he pressed his open mouth against the ghost’s.

It felt like old times. 

Beetlejuice breathed in, taking the warm air from Otho’s lungs, like a thirsty man in a desert. Oh, he’d missed that--

Otho broke the kiss once he’d run out of oxygen. He stayed close though, hand now fisted in his jacket. Beetlejuice wasn’t sure if that was to keep him from disappearing from literally right under his nose, or just because the man had a propensity for wrinkling clothing. As dapper as he liked to present himself, he had a _thing_ for mussed clothing up, like creases were evidence of passion. 

The only thing he could think to say was, “It feels different now that you have a beard.”

Jesus he was a dumbass.

Luckily, Otho didn’t seem to share his opinion. “I decided to grow it out because of yours. Do you like it?”

“I don’t know. Let me feel it again.”

With that ham-fisted invitation, Otho kissed him again. It grew this time--more of the old give and take, more tongue, more suction--as they fell back into the familiarity of it. When Otho had to stop for air this time, he was panting. Beetlejuice was the one to hold him close, now, to luxuriate in the breath.

With fingers made crass from a flood of arousal, Beetlejuice cupped and dug at the pants and its closure in front of him. 

“My _clients_ are _downstairs,”_ Otho hissed, but didn’t make any move to step away or stop him.

“Then don’t be loud,” Beetlejuice advised, unhelpfully. 

He’d managed to fight open Otho’s belt but the button was going to take two hands. He could just manipulate it free with a thought, but liked the tease of slightly frantic fumbling, and listening to Otho’s breath hitch as he did. He also liked finding that Otho still wore silk underwear. They felt nice, but provided no support against an erection. A wet spot, visible even in the frosty moonlight streaming through the window, marred the front of them.

He had an urge to put his mouth there, to make that wet spot bigger, but Otho’s fingers under his jaw turned him up upward again. 

The man’s expression was unreadable once more.

Beetlejuice didn’t know if he was going to be shoved away to end this or shoved to the dusty attic floor with Otho on top of him. What he got instead, was another kiss, this one harder, more desperate than the ones before it, a pull to an upright position, and a hand at his groin too, with equal floundering of his fly and a almost inaudible curse as Otho had to push the striped jacket back and suspenders off the specter’s shoulders to assist getting him undressed.

In very little time, however, both of them had their pants pushed hurriedly to mid-thigh, and Beetlejuice had been hauled to his feet. He should have known that there was no way Otho was going go to the floor and let dust and grime get on his tailored trousers. So now they were pressed torso to torso, groin to groin, mouth to mouth, and this time Otho only took sips of air when his lungs absolutely demanded it.

Bumping his hips forward, the specter was rewarded with a low groan. His bigger reward was the man’s large hand wrapping simultaneously around both their cocks.

The heat and pressure made him gasp. 

A further rutting into that hand to determine how much movement he was granted made Otho gasp.

“Clients. Downstairs,” he reminded him with a wicked grin.

Otho retorted, “Then don’t be loud!” in a strained whisper, and gave them both a pull just to test him.

That glorious warmth of his cock against another, of a hand stroking them both off--Beetlejuice moaned, checked himself, and buried his face in the other man’s neck to muffle himself. If he had his wits about him he’d make some comment about how moaning was going to be okay, this house was haunted after all, but the movement of Otho’s hand was shutting down his higher brain function. 

Not only was he losing the ability to keep the noises he made quiet, his hips moved of their own accord. The specter rolled his pelvis upward, chasing each stroke. He wasn’t alone in that; Otho pushed into his own hand, creating a beautiful counter friction as well. The man’s free hand held him in the small of his back, under his untucked shirt, searing his cold skin with the warmth of his palm. He missed that rough handling to keep him in position so much. He clung to Otho’s shoulders.

It’d been a long time since they’d been together, but Otho quickly fell into a practiced rhythm that suited them both: long pulls, an occasional twist for variety, a bit of a squeeze to stave off coming too quickly.

Speaking of which--

Beetlejuice pried the fingers of one hand off Otho’s jacket and dropped it to the man’s fist. He meant to slow him down, meant to gasp in his ear to wait, _give me a second baby, please--_ but the moment Otho loosened his grip to allow him to lace his tepid fingers between his, he wanted nothing more than to let pleasure take the bit between its teeth and have Otho follow quickly too. He wanted to be coated and smeared with the man’s come, and he wanted it now.

The combination of warm and chill, the doubling of pressure and friction pushed him higher and higher, closer to his end. A slight buckling of Otho’s knees made him hurriedly shift his other hand from his shoulder to his bare hip to help support him, and just as he wanted, Otho came in thick spurts over both their fists.

The heat and additional bit of slick it provided was enough to send him over the edge as well. 

His cool release mingled with Otho’s, and for several moments they both simply leaned into one another. Beetlejuice would have stood there for an eon, soaking in as much warmth as he could. Otho was the one to gently start to move away. 

They both groaned as they carefully relaxed their hands from their cocks. Otho made up for the fact that he was the first to move by capturing the Beetlejuice’s mouth again, swallowing his groans. He also dipped his hand lower to pinch the specter’s ass, earning himself a surprised gasp and a chuckle, and a nip to his lower lip in return. 

Hobbled by his trousers, Otho had to dig for his handkerchief awkwardly. When he finally extracted it from a back pocket, he wiped his hand clean before offering it to Beetlejuice. He took it and cleaned himself as well, then stuck the square of cloth into his own pocket instead of handing it back. 

There was no sound for a moment but the rustling of clothing and re-fastening of zippers and other closures. Otho was done before Beetlejuice, and stepped against the ghost immediately after he’d resituated his suspenders.

Before he could kiss him again, Beetlejuice said,

“I guess I like the beard.”

Otho snorted in amusement--so un-guru like!--and kissed him. It was lingering and soft, and felt like they’d never been apart. 

It also felt like a good bye.

Beetlejuice steeled himself for another rejection as the man broke away again.

“Beetlejuice--”

He shuddered at his name spoken aloud again. He couldn’t help it. But here it comes--

“--I’m glad to see you again. But--|

Oh fuck. Here it comes--

“--we haven’t seen each other for so long. I just . . .”

Fuck his fucking un-life. He should just slink back into the Netherworld while Otho was searching for words.

“ . . . I just don’t . . . this is hard to say . . . ”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck! Why was is so hard to leave? _Why couldn’t **he** be the one to leave, instead of people leaving him?!_

“You want to come with me, when I go?”

The words were spoken in a hushed rush, as if Otho just needed to blurt them out. It took Beetlejuice several embarrassing moments to comprehend them.

“Come with you?”

“Yes. I’ve been looking for you, you know . . .”

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have thought! Suddenly, the future looked, well, maybe not bright per se, but at least not as dim. 

He nodded, as if he had to reply as quickly as possible and didn’t trust words to be fast enough. 

Otho smiled. “Good. You have to do something for me first, though.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Anything, baby. You just name it.”

“You have to get rid of whatever is actually haunting this place. You know I’m garbage at all that stuff.”

Beetlejuice broke into laughter that probably echoed through the house, scaring the owners, but he didn’t care and knew Otho wouldn’t either. It’d just lend more credence to the man being able to banish spirits, just like the cons they used to pull back in the old days.

_fin_


End file.
